


Long Past Dark

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-21
Updated: 2007-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-26 00:18:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A solo hunt takes an unexpected turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Past Dark

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: Beta work by the fabulous and patient innie_darling.

  
Title: Long Past Dark  
Author: [](http://dotfic.livejournal.com/profile)[**dotfic**](http://dotfic.livejournal.com/)  
Rating/Characters: Gen, preseries, R, just Dean  
Word count: 3,700  
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. They all belong to Eric Kripke and the CW. That's the breaks, kids.

a/n: Beta work by the fabulous and patient [](http://innie-darling.livejournal.com/profile)[**innie_darling**](http://innie-darling.livejournal.com/).

Summary: A solo hunt takes an unexpected turn.

 _April, 2002  
Dubuque, Iowa_

Dean put his shoulder to the rusted iron door, and shoved. It creaked loudly as it opened and Dean paused, then pushed it more slowly, an inch at a time. The night air smelled clean after the earlier rain, and the wind was soft off the river. As he opened the door wider, the damp scent of rotten wood and the must that filled all abandoned buildings flooded out to greet him.

Ghouls weren't the brightest critters around, but he still didn't want to lose his advantage. So he opened that door as quietly as he could. There was no better way in that he could see. Breaking in through any of the murky windows would make even more noise.

He shifted his backpack and slipped through the narrow opening into the warehouse. The pack contained one huge-ass durabeam flashlight, one small blowtorch, and a can of lighter fluid.

Blind them first, then burn the suckers.

This had been easier last year when he and Dad took out that nest together in Carson City. One to aim the flashlight, one to wield the blowtorch. But Dad had gone off with Caleb to deal with Bunyips on Lake Eerie and by now they'd be in a boat out on the water. Dean tried very hard not to imagine something tearing a hole in the side of the hull, the boat capsizing. Probably he'd seen _Jaws_ one too many times. Dad could handle a Bunyip.

Just like he could handle ghouls.

Buggy yellow eyes glimmered at him, making him think of the creepy little creature in that book Sam had loved so much as a kid.

He turned on the flashlight. The beam sliced through the air, catching dust motes and two of the ghouls. They shrieked, throwing up their bony arms, shying back farther into the darkness, but Dean walked forward, keeping them in the beam.

"Yeah, don't like that, do you?" he said cheerfully. "That'll teach you to go around killing kids on my watch, you bastards."

The buggers were backed up against the wall now, only two as far as he could tell. They hissed as Dean walked forward, flicking the cap of the lighter fluid off with his thumb. Nearly paralyzed by the light, they couldn't shy away far enough when he squirted lighter fluid at them.

He flicked the blowtorch to high and rushed them.

The first one went up like a burnt mashmallow, its skin turning a mottled, fiery red mixed with cinder, like lava going down a mountainside. The other one didn't stand a chance either.

Like that, they were gone. The whole thing had taken five minutes.

Dean switched off the blowtorch and wiped the sleeve of his jacket across his face, itching with sweat and grime.

It was a sense beyond hearing or vision that signaled the movement behind him. A vibration beneath his shoes, the way the shadows changed in the steady beam of the flashlight resting on the floor.

Dean turned, tensing and ready to attack. Maybe he'd missed one.

He only caught a quick glimpse of something much too large to be a ghoul, something tall with scaly skin, before the blow caught him across the face.

He stumbled, flicking the blowtorch back on and as the thing advanced again, Dean held the torch out.

Whatever it was, it wasn't afraid of fire. It knocked the torch from his grasp.

Well, wasn't that the kicker.

While he was hunting the ghouls, something else was hunting him.

* * *

Still alive; that was good.

The ache in his jaw and the back of his head, something sticky dribbling down his cheek -- that was less good.

He blinked into the darkness and inhaled cold, stale air mixed with the heaviness of river mud.

Standing up; also good.

When he twisted his wrist to see the phosphorescent glow of the hands on his watch, he felt a weight pulling on his arm and heard a clanking noise.

"What the..."

Something heavy was wrapped around each wrist, cold metal against his skin. He twisted his hand and caught the length of heavy chain in his fingers.

"You have got to me kidding me! You have got to be fucking kidding me."

Manacles. For fuck's sake.

His head throbbed.

"Sonuvabitch."

Dean tugged against the chains.

Where the hell was he? Maybe he was actually in hell, and whoa, wouldn't that be interesting.

There was rustling in the darkness from one direction. A soft growl from another.

Yellow eyes flashed at him, too round and large to be human. Ghoul most likely.

It was colder down here, wherever "here" was, than it had been in the warehouse. He shuddered involuntarily.

Yeah, he was getting out of there, _now_. All he had to do was work the shoe off his foot and pull out his lockpick.

His shoes were gone. Not only his shoes, but the knife he kept strapped to his left calf too.

Whatever that thing was, it was fuckin' _smart_.

He strained against the manacles for so long that his wrists started to ache. When he stretched the chains to their full length and reached out his leg, his foot touched bars.

Crap.

Cursing out loud might not be wise; whoever, no, _whatever_ , his cellblock mates were, he didn't want to draw attention to himself. So he cursed in his head, words that would earn him _the glance_ from Sam and _the glare_ from Dad.

Okay, cursing in his head might make him feel better but wouldn't get him out of this mess.

Sit-rep.

Item one: he was alive.

Item two: mild head injury, no dizziness.

The manacles were restrictive enough that he couldn't easily reach down to his jacket pockets, but he could feel from their lightness that his cell phone was gone.

Item three: no cell phone.

Items four through seven: no blowtorch, no knife, no shoes, no flashlight.

Item eight: darkness.

 _Shit_.

He inhaled slowly. The smells were familiar -- things he'd hunted before. That was definitely the pungent odor of droppings, maybe a roc. He held his breath, listening into the dark. The rustling sound: wings. Definitely a roc.

Dean looked at his watch again. It had been four hours since he'd left his motel room, six hours since he'd eaten dinner, twelve hours since he'd last talked to his father.

Four months since he'd talked to Sam.

He leaned his head back against the wall.

Lights blinked on. Reflexively, he averted his head and squinted against the glare. Heavy steps sounded on metal stairs along with the click of claws.

Around him the dank space filled with noise, shrieks and whimpers and growls.

Bare lightbulbs were strung across the ceiling, the electric cords like the strands of a dark web. As his eyes stopping watering, Dean made out the inhabitants of the other cages.

A cerberus, one head dozing, one head snarling, the third gnawing at one of the bars. A roc, hissing furiously, beating its wings--ha, he'd been right. Point for him. A lone ghoul, hunched with its bony knees up to its chin, another point. Dean's stomach twisted, remembering photos of missing children in the newspaper.

In front of the roc's cage was a low, shallow stone bowl about three feet in diameter. Dark stains, old and thickly crusted, covered the inside.

Dean let all the air rush out of his lungs and went to work tugging on the manacles again. Then he stopped, because looking that frantic in front of an enemy was bad strategy.

He straightened up and tightened his jaw.

The something stopped halfway down the stairs. It paused there, as if regarding him and the things in the other cages -- checking on them. He saw bony, scaly legs and the sweep of a dark robe.

It turned and went back up the stairs again; it had only been reassuring itself that its captives were still there.

For whatever it was planning to do with them.

In the few seconds he had left of light, Dean scanned the floor of his cage -- nothing he could use as a weapon. A low ceiling stopped inches above his head, mottled, ancient cement. The floor was dirt, and there were no windows to speak of. Warehouse sub-basement probably.

He noticed one of the creatures--the roc--watching him with glittering eyes like black stones.

"What're _you_ looking at?" Dean snapped, right before the lights flicked off again.

* * *

There was a steady, metallic _drip-drip_ out in the darkness, past where he knew the other cages were. Old pipes, water falling on rusted metal. It made a hollow sound that suggested that the sub-basement was much bigger than it had appeared to be during the quick glimpse he'd had of it.

His fingers returned to one of the metal plates that anchored the manacles to the wall. He tried again to work his fingers in between the wall and the plate, worked on scraping away at the plaster. The cellar was damp, and only patches of the wall had been plastered to help mount the manacles; it began to chip away in small pieces. But not enough.

He'd already tried using his fingernails to turn the screws on the plates.

The darkness pressed against his eyes, relieved only by the glow of his watch. Six hours since he'd walked into that warehouse. His stomach rumbled and he swallowed, realizing his throat was dry despite the damp air.

Although the things in the cages were quiet for the moment, he could hear them breathing, the occasional rustle of a wing or scraping of a beak worrying at the bars. The ghoul's eyes shone clearly and fuck, he hated the color yellow.

Dean started to hum "Killing Time" under his breath, and rummaged through his memory for incantations.

There were lots of rituals, in a variety of dead languages, at his disposal. But no hocus-pocus words to magically open locks or melt the bars on cages. He couldn't shout _Lumos!_ and make light. Dean knew what he could count on. Colt, Beretta, Remington and hey, Winchester. Silver, fire, iron, salt. Things he could direct with his hands, touch with his fingers.

The hour hand moved on his watch, and he slid down into a crouch, as far down as the chains would allow.

* * *

He might have fallen asleep, which was damned stupid; when he glanced at the watch again it was two hours later than last time he'd looked and it felt like only five minutes had passed.

But crouching in the darkness was _boring_ , man.

California was what, two hours behind Iowa? Sam was probably sound asleep this very minute, legs sprawled every which way, likely snoring too, with a text book propped open on his chest because he'd tried to stay up studying all night.

Dean pictured Sam running anxiously across campus because he'd overslept after pulling an all-nighter, dark circles under his eyes, hair a more embarassing mess than usual, some fancy-ass triple half-caf foam excuse for a caffeinated drink in one hand and his backpack in the other.

To amuse himself, he imagined Sam with his hair cut neat, wearing one of those preppy v-neck sweaters. He mentally added a pocket protector and glasses and snorted out loud in the darkness. It didn't fit and he removed the sweater, glasses and pocket protector; his kid brother was a geek enough already.

At the sound of his laugh, the critters stirred up again.

"Oh, stuff a sock in it," Dean snapped.

The yellow eyes rose as the ghoul presumably got to its feet.

"You and me, buddy, soon as I get out of this. I've got a blowtorch with your name on it."

* * *

The bars shook as his feet contacted.

Dean braced his back against the wall again, pulled the chains until they were taut to give himself leverage, and kicked at the bars again with both feet.

This would work better if he still had his shoes on. The thick sports socks protected his feet only a little from the blows, and his feet didn't have enough impact.

Still, the bars shook, and that was something. He did it again and heard and felt masonry patter down from above him. _Yes._ That meant if he kept this up long enough, the bars might work their way loose and then...

Then what? He was still manacled. But he'd figure out a way around that.

The lights flashed back on, along with the click-creak of a door opening somewhere above him.

For a fleeting second, Dean indulged himself. Maybe Dad had tried to call and, getting no answer, decided to drive hell-for-leather south. Maybe Sam'd had a nightmare and on impulse called his big brother...yeah, like that would happen, and unless Dad had a helicopter, no way he'd have reached Iowa by now.

Assuming his boat hadn't capsized.

 _Jesus Christ on a popsicle stick, get a grip._

Because this was it. The thing was coming all the way down the rickety metal steps this time, its feet clang-clanging heavily.

It stopped at the bottom, its face concealed by the hood of a long brown robe, but Dean could feel its gaze on him. Its lower arms and hands stuck out, as did its calves and feet. The demon's skin was dark green swirled with scarlet, scaly, and the hands ended in long, sharp claws. Like something he'd seen on _Buffy_ , only better special effects.

The best special effects there were. Prosthetics had nothing on reality.

The thing went over to the roc's cage first and drew out a rusted sword with a plain leather grip. No jewels on the hilt, like Dean had seen in the movies and a museum that one time; it was a practical weapon, one for a soldier.

Backing up, ruffling its wings, the roc hissed and snapped. The demon's hands moved so quickly they were a blur and before Dean could even feel surprise, it had grabbed the roc's foot, flicked the blade, and cut away a talon. Dark blood dripped from the creature's foot as its beak opened wide in a silent shriek of pain.

"Fuuuuck," Dean muttered.

The demon placed the bloodied talon into the stone bowl and turned to the cerberus next. It whimpered, hunching down its heads like a cowed dog. As the demon reached through the bars of the cage, all three heads snapped, but the demon smacked each with the flat of the sword. Then its hand flashed out and snatched at something Dean couldn't see.

It was over, like that. The cerberus's many heads cocked to one side, puzzled. There was no blood.

The demon opened its clenched fist over the stone bowl and something slimy dripped down and landed on the bloody talon.

"Oh, _gross_." Dog slobber.

The demon turned its head to him, briefly, almost like a reproach to watch his mouth.

Then there was the ghoul, and with what looked like no work at all, the sword flicked and the scrawny thing was without a finger. Dean smirked a little as the beast hopped up and down, howling with pain.

His smirk faded fast because hell if he wasn't next. Uh-huh. All the smart-mouthed remarks in the world wouldn't change that, or the fact that he was still chained to the wall inside a cage.

And what the fuck was it going to take from _him_? Blood? A limb? Something else?

Sweat, ice cold, swept across his forehead and the back of his neck, making him twitch.

The thing had picked up the sword and was walking towards him now, striding gracefully. Dean gave it his best _fuck you_ grin. He'd seen his father smile like that dozens of times, when he was angry enough, when the thing they were fighting had taken a chunk out of one of them, when it had killed in such way that its enjoyment was evident.

 _Whatever you do, don't show your fear, not for a second. The smart ones will use it against you, the beasts will smell it on your skin and know you're already dead._

Dean bit his tongue, resisting the urge to talk, to joke, to kid around with this thing. It was close enough now that he could make out the shadow outline of features underneath the hood -- sharply pointed chin, a nose too long, a flash of dark red eyes.

It pulled out a ring of keys--an ordinary, silver ring with ordinary-looking, shiny, newly copied keys on it, which looked strange in the thing's hand. There was a jangle of keys and the cage door creaked open.

He braced his feet on the floor, wide apart, and watched the demon move, trying to read its strength. There was enough slack in the chains; he could fight.

When Dean kicked out the demon darted back. It moved in again, and this time Dean's foot contacted. He felt hard flesh over solid muscle give slightly, and the demon grunted.

It stepped back, standing in the open cage doorway, studying him. Dean lowered his head, studying the robed creature right back, and wow, this staring contest was going on for a long time.

Dean wondered why the demon didn't just try to stab him with the sword, and take what it wanted. Maybe it needed him whole.

The demon raised the sword.

Then again, maybe not.

 _Oh, fuck_. The sword swished above Dean's head as he ducked, and then he heard the sound of snapping metal.

The sword broke the manacle chains. Dean was so startled he fell forward onto his hands and knees as the tension gave way, and the demon was on him in a second, grabbing the trailing ends of the chains and yanking his arms hard behind his back and upwards. Dean grunted with pain but managed not to cry out as he struggled to get to his feet.

It turned into a battle of wills that was almost comical, and put Dean in mind of that time when Sammy, covered with cake icing and cobwebs, had refused to take a bath. Dad had dragged Sam down the hall, Sam's feet sliding along the floorboards as he alternated between going limp and struggling wildly.

That demon was trying to drag him towards the stone basin and given the items inside, Dean thought he'd rather not, thanks very much. But shit, the demon was strong, and it had to be taller than Sam, who could sometimes use that unfair height to pin Dean when he wasn't at the top of his game.

Dean tugged against the chains, trying to take a swing, but the demon only had to yank to send shooting pain through Dean's shoulders and down his arms.

Fuck, this was not good.

The whole thing was humiliating. He tried every fighting trick Dad had ever taught them and some things he'd picked up in bar-fights without Dad around. He used his feet and got his ankle hooked around the demon's but it only kicked him free with an irritated gesture, as if he were a cat.

No way he was going to die this way, chained and being dragged to his doom in his goddamned _socks_.

The demon shoved him hard over the stone basin; his face was practically in the cerberus slobber, and the bloody ghoul finger loomed in his vision, right next to the roc talon.

Dean let his whole body go slack, pretending to faint. He'd played it right, set up expectations of a fierce relentless struggle. Having that struggle stop threw the demon off completely; he heard it grunt in soft surprise.

It was just a split second, but it was enough.

Dean wrenched his hands forward. The trailing chain ends went flying out of the demon's grasp and by the time it had grabbed them again, Dean already had the roc's talon in his hand and had turned. He rammed the talon up into the demon's mid-section.

The thing grunted again softly, this time in pain. Dean drove the talon in farther. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the demon draw back the sword for a blow, so Dean jabbed his elbow up in the direction of where he thought a demon might keep its favorite demon parts.

With the opening that gave him, he went for the sword, and almost broke his own fingers prying it from the demon's. The chain ends dangling free, Dean finally got his hands around the sword hilt, stepped, turned, and drove the blade in, all the way up to the hilt. Blood so dark it was almost black flowed over his fingers.

As Dean stepped back, the demon fell to its knees, then slumped limp across the stone basin.

Whatever it had been planning, a ritual of some kind, was something Dean had never heard of. He'd tell Dad, have him get the word out that there was something that hunted hunters.

Dad was probably back on land by now.

He eyed the sword in his hand, at the blood running down the blade. Rusty, sure, but he could shine it up. No sword that rusty had any business being that sharp, so Dean figured it was something special.

Dean cleaned it on the demon's robes and turned to the cages. Three more kills before he could get back to his motel.

The business wouldn't take long; but first, he had to find the blowtorch. And his shoes.

A hot shower and a few shots of whiskey ought to drown out red or yellow eyes, the musty smell of the warehouse, the feel of the blood hot and sticky on his fingers. To help him forget what it was like being alone in the dark for hours.

It wasn't dawn yet in California.

Dean wondered where his cell phone was.

~end


End file.
